


I Can Turn You On With My Brain

by evesharmony



Category: Stargate Atlantis, Stargate SG-1
Genre: Alternate Universe, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-09-17
Updated: 2007-09-17
Packaged: 2017-10-13 05:04:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/133258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evesharmony/pseuds/evesharmony
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John clambers to his feet, glances around at the unfamiliar SFs and gateroom personnel, and starts to wonder just how much trouble he’s in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Can Turn You On With My Brain

**Author's Note:**

  * For [chase_acow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chase_acow/gifts).



> Written for chase_acow at the John/Cam Thing-a-Thon 2007. The prompt I used was "switched roles (Cam in Atlantis, John in SG-1)"

Prologue

Despite what people may think, John has read a lot of SGC mission reports. And so when the energy blast from the Wraith weapon hits the gate just as he’s diving through the event horizon, he knows it’s a bad thing. If his de-molecularized brain cells could form thought, they’d pray for a soft landing and an open iris on the other side.

Ch.1

Well. The floor is familiar. Atlantis floor. Maybe everything is actually fi—

“Identify yourself.”

And that voice, it’s familiar too. Southern accent, all business, would fit if he was laying on the ramp at the SGC instead of blinking against the softly glowing floor of the Atlantis gateroom.

John clambers to his feet, glances around at the unfamiliar SFs and gateroom personnel, and starts to wonder just how much trouble he’s in.

“Colonel Mitchell—“

The airmen around him tense even further. O—kay. So either the SGC executed a hostile takeover of the city in the thirty minutes he’s been gone, or…

Mitchell takes a step toward him, smile touching the corners of his mouth, arms crossed loosely over his chest. John isn’t fooled – he recognizes the hard glint in Mitchell’s eyes, the ready stance. Danger Will Robinson, you’re not in Kansas anymore.

“Have we met?” Mitchell’s tone implies that’s he’s not going to be satisfied no matter what John answers, but he goes ahead anyway.

“Name’s John Sheppard. I’m a Lieutenant Colonel in the United States Air Force. Planet Earth, Milky Way galaxy?” he adds after the blank looks.

“That’s interesting,” Mitchell states as the smile hardens into something less than friendly. “Because John Sheppard died in Antarctica three years ago.”

Ch. 2

He’s been poked and prodded and interrogated and intimidated by a small but formidable woman named Fraiser. John wants to ask her if she’s *that* Dr. Fraiser but is afraid he might wake up missing a kidney or two. The airmen guarding him are just past bored and inching into ‘shoot the prisoner so we can find something more interesting to do’ when Fraiser and Mitchell re-entered the infirmary.

“So, am I me?”

Fraiser glances at Mitchell, who gives her a nod. “Well, the DNA sample we took matches the SGC profile we have for John Sheppard. Physically, you are who you claim, but . . .”

But if they have clones here, he’s royally screwed because there’s no way to prove who he is, and he’ll probably end up in a cage for the rest of his life.

Mitchell picks up where the doctor stopped. “But the chances of Sheppard pulling a Jackson are slim, and there were some anomalous readings from the gate just before he appeared. Sergeant estimates it took the inbound traveler three point seven seconds to get here.” Mitchell and Fraiser share another curious glance and then Mitchell sticks his hand out and beams at John.

“John Sheppard, welcome to our version of reality.”

Ch. 3

It’s late, so he and Mitchell are the only people left in the mess. There are a few people he’s recognized, some with disbelief, some with sadness, but overall the city seems to be filled with strangers. Even the hum of Atlantis behind his eyeballs is different. And--

“Wait. I was the commander of SG-1? How the hell did that happen?”

“Exemplary service in the line of duty. Outstanding test scores. Oh, and ‘wicked Ancient genes’. The scientist’s words, not mine.” At John’s pinched expression Mitchell ventures, “I take it things are . . . different . . . where you’re from?”

John’s beginning to wonder if this isn’t a parallel galaxy so much as a perpendicular one, it’s so different.

“Well, in my reality I’m in charge of the military contingent in Atlantis. But I got there through a series of fuckups, coincidences, and wicked Ancient genes. And *you’re* leading SG-1, by the way.”

It’s Mitchell’s turn to look pinched. “I’ll take the Wraith over McKay, thanks.”

“Well, he’s saved my life at least a dozen times over. And the lives of everyone in Atlantis and a few other planets—“

“Whoa,” Mitchell interrupts, holding up his hands. “I only meant that if I had to be stranded in another galaxy with only one other person, Rodney McKay would not be my first choice.”

“Then I’d say you’re not giving Rodney enough credit.” He’s not sure where his sudden burst of ‘defend Rodney’ is coming from, but he thinks it might have something to do with the twinge of guilt he feels for giving Mitchell that lemon.

Mitchell stares at him a beat, then bursts into laughter. “Now I know beyond a doubt you’re not our Sheppard. When you—I mean Sheppard—took over command of SG-1, him and McKay kind of…butted heads a lot. It got so bad that he requested to have McKay transferred to another team.”

“But . . . why the hell would he have done that?” No wonder he's dead in this reality.

“Rumor is, Sheppard caught McKay and a lieutenant in a supply closet. In flagrante delicto.”

John frowns. “Getting caught on base is stupid, but McKay’s a civilian. I don’t see—“

“The lieutenant’s name was David Bakersfield.”

John knows his mouth is hanging open. In this reality he’s apparently a homophobe and a bigot. Ironic. “Oh,” he manages to croak.

“Yeah. Oh,” Mitchell echoes, studying him closely. It takes a few seconds, but John realizes that even though this is something that they’re not really supposed to be talking about, Mitchell seems to have phrased it purposely to get a reaction out of him. John wonders if he likes what he sees.

“If I was stranded in another galaxy,” John ventures, “with only one other person, Rodney McKay would be my first and only choice, ten times out of ten.”

Mitchell’s gaze turns speculative. “That good, huh?”

“You have no idea,” he says, then feels his ears redden. He hadn’t really meant it that way, no matter how many inappropriate thoughts he’s had watching Rodney bent over an Ancient console.

“In that case,” Mitchell grins, slapping him on the shoulder and squeezing a little too meaningfully, “Call me Cam.”

Mitchell gets up and heads for the exit, and John doesn’t even pretend not to watch his ass as he goes.

Ch. 4

“These will be your quarters until we can get you back home. Should only be a couple days—we’ve got it down to a science since the last time it happened.”

Mitchell is reaching for the light sensor but John simply thinks ‘on’ and light fills the room. Mitchell blinks at him for a moment.

“That was seriously cool.”

John rolls his eyes, but Mitchell just laughs and follows him farther into the room. “You don’t understand – we’ve got plenty of people here with the Ancient gene, but the simplest thing is at least five minutes of concentration, so nobody even bothers. I’ve never seen someone just . . . *think* on the lights like that.”

“I’m here all week,” John drawls, anticipating what Mitchell’s going to ask next.

“Speaking of which, while you’re here, I don’t suppose you’d mind—“

“Running around the city, turning on everything in sight?”

Mitchell smirks. “Well, the tech, anyway. It’d be no good to have a mob of horny women running wild. We don’t need the distraction.”

John opens his mouth, hesitates, then realizes that once he goes home he’s never going to have to see any of these people again—at least, not *this* version of these people. “Not worried about the men?”

Mitchell outright laughs, which is a far cry from the shocked or disapproving look he’s expecting. Then again, Mitchell didn’t seem too bothered by the idea of McKay and David Bakersfield in a supply closet. When he speaks, John wonder’s if the trip has ruined his hearing, because Mitchell’s voice has taken on an edge of teasing. “Why John Sheppard, I knew there was more to you than that straight-laced exterior I kept reading about.”

John finds himself both annoyed and amused. “Don’t mix me up with him. I’ve got a feeling I wouldn’t even recognize this guy if I ran right into him.”

“Well, there are subtle differences. The hair, for one. And the stubble. Oh, and the whole rumpled look. Sheppard was big on ‘not a hair out of place’.”

John runs his fingers over the back of his head self consciously. He’d given up on getting his hair to behave by the time he was fourteen. “Sorry to crush your model of the perfect officer.”

Mitchell shrugs. “Personally, I think it’s an improvement.”

John isn’t sure what to say to that, so he distracts himself by looking around the room. That occupies all of 4.7 seconds of his time as the room is identical to dozens of others he’s seen.

“Can this wait?” Mitchell asks out of thin air. John turns in time to see his shoulders slump and realizes he’s speaking into his comm. “Alright, I’ll be right there.”

“Anything wrong?” Despite the fact that this isn’t his Atlantis, that these aren’t his people, he still feels concerned. Responsible. He tenses, remembering all of the emergency late night summons he’s received since arriving in Atlantis. Oddly enough, it’s the look on Mitchell’s face that puts his worries to rest. His eyes are hot as they sweep over John.

“Just piss poor timing, is all,” he grumbles. “Don’t go anywhere. I won’t be long.”

Ch. 5

He catches movement out of the corner of his eye and glances over to see Mitchell leaning in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest. Must have snuck in while John was in the shower.

“I see you’re making yourself comfortable,” Mitchell drawls, nodding at the towel wrapped around John’s hips.

“You too,” John says before turning back to the mirror. He smoothes the rest of the shaving cream over his chin and brings up the razor, but Mitchell is suddenly there, fingers cool around his wrist.

“Leave it,” he says.

John reaches over with his free hand and grabs another towel. “So what was the crisis? Visitor, fight?” He can’t quite believe how casual he sounds.

“The botanists’ still exploded. I used to pretend I didn’t know about it, but now I have to reprimand some people. Tell me you want this.”

Mitchell’s words all come out in a rush and it takes John a second to catch up. When he does, he smirks. “A reprimand?”

The grip on his arm tightens, Mitchell’s nostrils flare. “I wouldn’t say no. And I guarantee you’d love it.”

Jesus. John fights the urge to drop to his knees right there on the hard tile floor. “Is that a fact, sir?”

If he wasn’t so turned on, he might have been frightened by the look in Mitchell’s eyes. He’s almost expecting the shove that comes next, closes his eyes in anticipation. He feels the towel loosen and slide down his legs, and opens his eyes in surprise. What he doesn’t expect to see is Mitchell staring back at him from his knees, breath ghosting over the head of John’s cock. And Mitchell’s eyes don’t waver from his for a second as he moves forward, and then John’s cock is running over Mitchell’s bottom lip, and his tongue, and there’s a hint of teeth, and *fuck*.

John closes his eyes again and lets his head thump against the wall. A pathetic groan echoes in the small space, and yeah, that’s him. Mitchell murmurs appreciatively in response. God. Mitchell is murmuring *around* his cock, long, slow, hot vibrations and John is clutching at the air and not at all thinking of putting his hands on Mitchell’s face.

Mitchell is doing obscene, swirly things with his tongue—things that a full-bird Colonel should *not* know how to do—and John can’t take it anymore. He puts his hands on Mitchell’s head and tugs.

Up. Up. “Mitchell,” he whines.

“Thought I told you to call me Cam,” he says breathlessly, rising until John can capture his mouth. His lips are slick with the taste of John.

“Just shut up and get undressed,” John growls, and Mitchell chuckles against his mouth and lets himself be pushed back through the doorway as they fumble with his clothes. John skims his hands over each bit of skin revealed and discovers with a startled gasp that Mitchell’s ticklish. He files it away for later, because right now he needs Mitchell naked and horizontal and pressing up against him just. Like. That.

“Jesus.”

“Cam.”

This time John laughs and says “Yes sir,” and there’s a hitch in Mitchell’s breathing that makes him wonder if Mitchell has a rank kink. He’ll have to file that away for later too, because he’s being rolled onto his back with surprising ease, and his legs are parting of their own volition, and every muscle is trembling in Mitchell’s arms as he braces himself over John.

“Hard, fast, slow?” he grits out.

“Hard. Fast. Faster if you can manage,” John says, and Mitchell grins and mutters ‘thank God’ and grinds their hips together so deliciously hard that John sees stars.

After that it’s all sweat and grasping fingers and gasping mouths and John comes like he hasn’t had sex in years, and Mitchell’s cock is sliding over his belly and making a mess, but even that feels good. When Mitchell jerks and groans and bites his shoulder, John realizes there’s a distinct possibility that he’ll be able to get it up again before the night is over.

Ch. 6

Mitchell’s laying beside him, the hard planes of his body muted in the soft light. He still can’t believe how much of a kick Mitchell gets out of watching him turn the lights off and on.

They’re not cuddling, for which John is grateful, but he likes that Mitchell’s hand is resting against his hip, likes the gentle zing of sensation when Mitchell’s fingers twitch against his damp skin. Mitchell’s chest is rising and falling more slowly with each passing second, and John is just beginning to think he’s fallen asleep when Mitchell breaks the silence.

“Do you think the other me—your version of me—likes guys?”

John thinks about it a moment, but isn’t sure how to answer. “I don’t think we’re really at the ‘let’s openly discuss our sexual orientation’ stage of our friendship.”

Mitchell snorts. “Fair enough. But if he did?”

John shrugs, the effort of moving almost too much. “It wouldn’t matter. I’m in Atlantis, he’s on Earth.”

“And when you go Earthside?”

“Right, because we get so much downtime.”

“Jesus Sheppard, most people get *less* cynical after great sex.”

John gives him a halfhearted kick in the shin. “Guess I just need a lot more sex.”

Mitchell’s teeth gleam in the shadows. “I’ll take that action. And I call dibs on the bottom next time.”

John is not grateful, however, for the way Mitchell is able to flip onto his stomach and instantly fall asleep, leaving John staring at the dip of his tailbone and the curve of his ass.

Ch. 7

He unglues the side of his face from the gateroom floor and shakes himself. Those long distance trips are a bitch. Elizabeth and Rodney are standing two feet away, gaping at him.

“Hey guys,” he says as he gets to his feet, adjusting the borrowed uniform. A quick survey of the personnel assures him that he’s back where he’s supposed to be. “What’s new?”

That breaks Rodney’s stupor. “What’s new? What’s new? You disappear for *five* days and reappear out of nowhere like nothing’s happened and all you can say is ‘what’s new?’ and … what the hell are you wearing?”

Ch. 8

It takes him a few weeks to get up the nerve, and in the end all he writes is ‘Send sports. JS.’ He winds up with college basketball, which he supposes is better than nothing, but his next message is more specific.

‘When I said sports, I meant football. JS’

The next databurst comes complete with eight hours of World Cup soccer and an email stating ‘Your wish is my command.’

He tries to ignore the flush that creeps up his cheeks when he reads it in the middle of the gateroom.

He manages to hold out for an entire week before Zelenka finds out he’s got soccer, and one night the whole European contingent of Atlantis is knocking on his door and insisting to school him in the finer points of “football”.

The next day he writes ‘NFL. JS.’ But before the weekly databurst arrives he already knows something will be wrong, and sure enough, the email says ‘N stands for north, right?’. The video is of the 97 Grey Cup between the Toronto Argonauts and the Saskatchewan Roughriders. John decides not to complain too much, because it’s at least got Doug Flutie in it.

The following week he gets an unsolicited email. Attached is a video of the latest Motocross World Championship. After that it’s synchronized swimming from the Barcelona Summer Olympics. Then Russian men’s figure skating.

‘Next time I’m in the Milky Way, I’m so kicking your ass.’

When Mitchell writes back, John is glad he’s reading it in his quarters. Alone. ‘I’ll take that action. Ten bucks says you don’t last ten minutes.’

John grins to himself, presses the heel of his hand against his wayward erection, and wonders if Elizabeth will believe him if he requests time off.


End file.
